


First and Second Endings

by LeBibish



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon Compliant, Canon deaths apply, Experimental, F/M, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 13:17:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13054764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeBibish/pseuds/LeBibish
Summary: What was and what could have been. Three relationships that were central to Shakespeare's tragic play. Three beginnings, three endings...and three moments when things might have have been different.





	1. Juliet and the Prince of Cats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SapphicSatan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphicSatan/gifts).



> Wow, this was both really challenging to write and really fun to think about. I hope it meets some of what you wanted to read. Thank you for the great prompt!
> 
> The title is from a bit of musical notation; I quote: "Sometimes a repeated section has two different endings. The first time through you play the first ending and the second time through you play the second ending.

**Chapter One: Juliet and the Prince of Cats**

**\-----------------**

**_How It Began_ **

**_\-----------------_ **

_Capulet: The earth hath swallow’d all my hopes but she,_

_She is the hopeful lady of my earth…_

 

Juliet couldn’t remember ever actually meeting Tybalt. He had simply always been there, a part of her daily life.

She couldn’t remember a time without Tybalt shouting at his tutors or glowering at his food after being scolded at dinner. The fierce boy quarreling in the yard with the cook’s apprentice…the stable boy…her father’s pages…and then the next afternoon returning home from wandering the streets, bruised and grinning, arms linked with those same boys.

One of her earliest memories was of Tybalt, from when her entire world was the nursery and Nurse and her two charges: Juliet, the last living child of the House, and Tybalt, cousin and friend. The memory was worn and stitched together, many nights blended into a single event.

She was lying in her bed in the dark, snuggled under covers, warm and sleepy. There was a boy crying, his sobs soft and stifled. She remembered tiptoeing out of her bed, cautious not to wake Nurse or alarm the boy. If she drew his attention—if she spoke—she knew from experience that he would snap at her, angrily rubbing the tears from his cheeks and denying they even existed. Instead, she climbed onto the bed as quietly as she could. The bedsheets felt cool and stiff as if they had never been used. She leaned against his hunched, shaking back and slowly wrapped her short, chubby arms around his neck, laying her head against his shoulder. His breath hitched, the quiet sobs stuttering briefly, but he made no complaint. Slowly, the crying softened until both children fell asleep.

When Tybalt moved out of the nursery, Juliet fretted over him for days.  Who would take care of Tybalt without Juliet there? (Who would be there for Juliet to take care of without Tybalt?) She worried for him and at him until Tybalt shouted at her and pushed her into a mud puddle.

She had been afraid of Tybalt growing up and leaving her behind, but it didn’t change as much as she had feared. He had separate lessons, and could wander out onto the streets which were forbidden to Juliet, but he was still there, a constant presence whenever she looked up.  

When Juliet was sent to bed early for saucing Nurse, Tybalt snuck in to bring her his own dessert. While Juliet was practicing embroidery and simple stitching, Tybalt was practicing swordsmanship outside her window (His form was perfect and precise according to his tutors. Her stitches needed improvement, according to her mother.) When Juliet had the hems let down in her dresses, Tybalt was there admiring his brand-new shirts and coat with bright, shining buttons. While Juliet was groaning under her breath and being stuck with pins; Tybalt was smiling proudly and gratefully at her mother for his new clothes.

Juliet and Lady Capulet were some of the only people ever graced with Tybalt’s smile.

Once, Juliet heard a servant snickering and calling Tybalt ‘the Prince of Cats.’ Tired of Tybalt’s unyielding perfectionism and sharp tongue, the servant had overheard the epithet in the marketplace and come home bursting with amused malice. Sweet Juliet, innocent to some of the overtones, loved the description as much as she loved her cousin. It made her think of the tomcat who guarded the storeroom, a grey shadow with sharp claws and fierce scars. He defended his territory vehemently, hissing at newcomers and striking out to scratch and bite at anyone who came too close to him. He was proud and vain and violent…and particular in his affections. Juliet spent a good month slowly making friends with the little creature, patiently waiting with treats and slow movements until he eventually deigned to let her pet him. His fur was soft and sleek, and she loved to gently cuddle with him whenever he would tolerate her—for short times and only when no one else was around. She could understand the comparison with her cousin and it amused her greatly although she didn’t voice it. (It’s possible though that she started calling the unnamed storeroom cat Little Tybalt).

As Juliet grew, she had more demands on her own time even as Tybalt spent more time exploring Verona in between his lessons. She might have resented his freedom to run wild with friends while she was kept safe, confined and isolated on the Capulet’s estate…but she loved nothing so much as to hear his tales of his adventures.

When Tybalt was in a good mood, she could cajole him into sharing with her what he had been about during the day—and who with. He was happy enough to boast about how brave and strong and skilled he was—the fights he won and races run and tricks played. When she pressed, he was willing to talk to her about the marketplaces, bursting with people and colors and the smell of exotic spices and roasting meats. He could be convinced to tell her about climbing the walls of the city, sneaking around the guards and feeling the rough stones, sun-warmed or wind-chilled against his palms, and looking out to the rolling hills and shadowy valleys and golden fields stretching out into the unknown horizon.

Tales about his companions on these adventures were much harder to collect and they were consequently Juliet’s favorites. She knew her cousin—he was quick to insult those he disliked and even to growl and groan over those he didn’t care about, but he kept quiet about those close to his heart. There was one summer in particular when he found friends that she was sure were dear to him and she collected details about them like bits of treasure dug out of a sandy shore.

Either she never heard or she never remembered their names, but she knew their spirits. There was one with dark eyes and a fiery heart—he was so full of energy and constant movement that Tybalt felt that only death itself would ever keep him still. Juliet pictured him dancing and laughing, drawing Tybalt into his merry capers. Another was quieter; he drew less of Tybalt’s attention, but what Juliet heard of him gave her a picture of a more level-headed sort, dragging his friends out of the trouble they were constantly getting in to.

It nearly broke Juliet’s heart when Tybalt stopped telling stories about them. It was so abrupt, so unexpected and when she tried to ask what happened, Tybalt left the room and refused to speak to her at all.

Juliet was young and she was quickly distracted from her cousin’s upset by an even worse change in her world. An old feud erupted into new hatred and her father’s temper became uncertain and fractious. He frightened Juliet at times with his sudden shifts in mood and unexpected violence. She forgot that Tybalt had stopped smiling even before she had ever heard of the house of Montague and she blamed them for all that was wrong in her family.

Even so, even as Tybalt became more distant and angry, he was a fixed part of Juliet’s world: a constant.

She couldn’t remember meeting Tybalt and she couldn’t even imagine a time before he had been there. A time without Tybalt there to shout and snarl and glare at everyone, to distract her father’s temper and bear his scoldings. Without an older boy to tease her and scold her and accept her comfort and care. Without her tall, strong cousin around to watch over her and defend her honor.

Juliet also couldn’t remember meeting Tybalt’s parents, her aunt and uncle. (She never did.)

 

  **\-------------------------------------**

**_What Happened In Between_ **

**_\-------------------------------------_ **

_Nurse:    Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days._

 

Count Paris was all that her mother and Nurse had declared, Juliet was sure. Handsome and well-mannered, as she had seen sitting by him through dinner. Well-connected and placed, of course. But he didn’t move her. She thought briefly of the way Tybalt’s eyes had gleamed when they were younger, the way his entire face had softened when he spoke of his companions. She had never met anyone who made her feel so fully—no friends, no bosom companions, no dear beloved. Should her husband leave her so cold in her feelings as well?

Juliet firmly dismissed her thoughts. There was a brief respite in the festivities between the feasting for invited guests and the dancing when maskers would be free to enter. Juliet had been left a few moments to entertain herself (though she knew her parents might be happier for her to continue to entertain Count Paris).

The halls near the kitchen were swelteringly hot and packed with noise and movement. The servants bustled through, as quick and agile as any dancer. Juliet thought about trying to find a quiet corner to watch from, but quickly gave up. She wandered through the hallways, peeking through doorways here and there, looking for a place that was out of the way, but still interesting.

More than anything, Juliet wanted a distraction. She wanted something to occupy her mind and keep away the thoughts of her mother’s request and Nurse’s bawdy jokes and teasing. Something to think about other than Count Paris. And marriage. And babies.

Tybalt would be her first choice for amusement except that he was in a bit of disgrace at the moment. Juliet had heard that he had been involved in a brawl with some Montagues on the streets. Her father had been in a nasty temper after being publicly berated by the Prince and he had taken it out on Tybalt.

Lord Capulet’s temper was sudden and intense and quickly spent. He was already in a jovial mood, a benevolent lord over the feasting.  Tybalt, on the other hand, would be nursing his own ill temper after such an encounter and so would be of no use to Juliet in her quest for pleasant distraction and companionship.

She wandered toward the store rooms instead. Perhaps little Tybalt would be inclined to play with her a bit. As long as she didn’t disappear for too long and kept cat hair from attaching itself to her dress, she was unlikely to get into trouble.

\------

When Nurse called Juliet away to meet with her mother, she was afraid that her flirtations with the strange youth had been noticed. That her boldness and curiosity had attracted too much attention and would mean disgrace. (She thought it was worth even the worst scold and punishment her parents could bring to bear—she had never felt so full of confidence and delight).

But her mother only wished for her to bid goodbye to Count Paris as he and his retinue left for the night. He lingered over her hand, his eyes possessive and his skin clammy. Nothing like the youth with his laughing admiration and warm, smooth hands and cheeks. She endured the Count’s good wishes, blushing prettily at her own brash thoughts, with very little attention for the man in front of her.

As more and more guests left and even Lord Capulet took to his bed, Juliet kept her eye on those departing, looking for her engaging young admirer. With her attention so widely spread, she caught sight of Tybalt at the top of the stairs, glowering down at someone she thought she recognized. A young lord, near the same age as Tybalt—she thought he might be a kinsman of the Prince. She remembered seeing him standing near to Count Paris. What had he done to draw Tybalt’s anger?

Then Juliet’s gaze found the sweet pilgrim she had been looking for and she forgot her cousin and his nobleman. She sent off Nurse to learn her stranger’s name, full of shy hope and sly delight.

Romeo. Heir to House Montague.

 

_Juliet: My only love sprung from my only hate!_

_Too early seen unknown and known too late!_

_Prodigious birth of love it is to me,_

_That I must love a loathed enemy._

 

**\------------------**

**_How It Ended_ **

**\------------------**

If Nurse had spoken more clearly—if Juliet’s mind had not been so thoroughly fixed by her dear husband—if Nurse was not so constantly circuitous in her thoughts and so loathe to name those she spoke of—if Juliet had not been caught fast by the idea that it was Romeo dead…she might have felt the impact of Tybalt’s death more keenly. 

If Nurse had not been so quick to shame and disparage her lord, perhaps Juliet would not have leapt so strongly to his defense. 

If she had even once imagined a world without Tybalt in it, perhaps she would have been able to truly comprehend that he was gone. Perhaps the words “Romeo is banished” would have cut less deeply if they were not such a good distraction from the words that preceded them. 

If. If. If.

 

_Juliet:    O, look! Methinks I see my cousin’s ghost_

_Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body_

_Upon a rapier’s point: stay, Tybalt, Stay!_

_Romeo, I come! This do I drink to thee._

**_\---------------------------------_ **

**_What Might Have Been_ **

**_\---------------------------------_ **

It could have ended differently, of course. A chance here, a choice there, and the world changes.

What could have happened if Juliet had searched out her cousin at the beginning of the feast? If, instead of avoiding his temper, she had chosen to distract herself by trying to tease it out of him?

Tybalt, who knew his cousin better than any living soul except for Nurse, noticed her preoccupation. Where he might have fumed and brooded over the encounter with Montague’s dogs and his uncle’s temper—and therefore brought more shame and scolding through his fixation—instead he focused on little Juliet and her slightly desperate whimsy. It was the work of moments to goad her into sharing the source of her worries and cares.

He noticed Mercutio still, of course, an invited if not entirely welcome guest, but he didn’t linger to listen to the man’s companions. He didn’t pay such close attention as to recognize the voice of Romeo because he was instead turning his eyes and ears to Paris.

Count Paris, here to woo and wed Tybalt’s sweet, young cousin. He spent the night stalking behind the older lord, an unnerving stare fixed far from any young lovers.

A challenge, a duel, and unforgiving death were still very much on Tybalt’s mind when he learned of Romeo’s presence at his uncle’s feast. But by that point, it was too late—Romeo and Juliet were wed with the support of the church behind them and Lord Capulet and Montague were apparently resigned to the situation. Any violence on Tybalt’s part would make his cousin a widow and himself shamed and exiled for the murder of a kinsman, if not put to death himself.

It would almost be worth it, he thought.


	2. Romeo and the Fairy Prince

**Chapter Two: Romeo and the Fairy Prince**

**\-----------------**

**_How It Began_ **

**_\-----------------_ **

_Montague: …Away from the light steals home my heavy son,_

_And private in his chamber pens himself,_

_Shuts up his windows, locks far daylight out_

_And makes himself an artificial night…_

Romeo first met Mercutio when they were both children. The older boy ran wild through the streets of Verona, his close connection to the governing Prince both an entry pass into any household and a pardon for any trouble. The younger boy was pushed out into the world by the will of his parents, who refused to allow the heir to House Montague to indulge his melancholy and daydreaming at home every day.

Romeo did not remember exactly how they became friends, except that it involved insults, flailing punches and a very cold fountain.

Whether due to Romeo’s brighter moods or the fortunate politics of it, Mercutio was always warmly welcomed to the Montague household. He dined with them, charming Romeo’s mother and the other ladies with fantastical tales and outlandish compliments. He dropped in on Romeo and Benvolio’s swords practices, goading them into mock duels that had them practicing harder than ever.

He crept into their history lessons, sneaking through the window and standing just behind their tutor, mocking the old man silently as he lectured until the other boys couldn’t contain their snickering. He dragged them into street brawls and taverns and dice games and vulgar dances.

Every black eye that Romeo ever collected, he could lay at Mercutio’s door. Benvolio, who spent time training with the guards and hanging about the marketplace listening to the merchants barter, learned far more curses and intemperate language from Mercutio.

And still, Romeo’s parents and family welcomed Mercutio into their house. He made Romeo laugh and dragged him out of his room when he started to sulk. He teased and taunted and pushed until Romeo lost his temper and fought back. They wrestled and tumbled about together, like puppies playing.

Mercutio had his own wild moods though. His temper could turn like the edge of a sword, friendly mockery turned cutting and cruel in an instant. At times, his stories would get away from him, his voice high and fast until the words seemed to blur together into a foreign language. He would scream and cry as easily as he laughed and the world seemed to tremble along with him.

For all that Mercutio was welcomed across Verona, he had few close friends. It took something special to be able to keep up with his quick wit and his sudden swings in mood and humor. Romeo once overheard some of the more superstitious traders at the market whispering—right after a fairly spectacular prank had ended in Mercutio being dragged away to explain himself to his kinsman, the Prince. The traders spoke nervously of elven trickery and fairy enchantments, before glancing down the street where the dark-haired youth was laughing scornfully at his escorts.

Mercutio had arrogantly called attention to himself after the prank had started to go wrong, distracting spectators from Romeo and Benvolio. They would have been the ones in trouble otherwise and they did not have the benefit of such lofty relations as the Prince of Verona.

Mercurial Mercutio, wild and fey. And loyal to the bone.

When Romeo was a child, the Capulets were simply another noble family in Verona. He may have heard, here and there, of an ancient feud, but it was nearly forgotten by the time Romeo was born. The three of them, Mercutio, Romeo, and Benvolio, ran through the streets of Verona and played and wrestled with every other boy on the streets, no matter their family or status.

Romeo knew that when he was in disgrace and not allowed out, or sick and miserable and too attached to his bed, Mercutio spent his time with others. He was not made to tolerate loneliness. It didn’t matter to Romeo. He knew his place at Mercutio’s side and Mercutio’s place at his.

Even an absence months long wasn’t enough to dim their friendship, although there was a time when Romeo worried it might.

One summer, Romeo was sent away to stay with a distant cousin in Mantua. He was supposed to be there to learn more about the family’s investments outside the city, but Romeo could only see the entire journey as a punishment. Who could bear living away from Verona, the best of all cities? How could he be sure Mercutio and Benvolio hadn’t forgotten about him while he was away?

He was pretty sure about Benvolio, actually. His cousin was too steady for anything to change his affections. But what about Mercutio? The flighty young man that superstitious people whispered was either charmed by the fairies or himself a changeling? Whose mood changed with the winds? Romeo was not at all confident that Mercutio would still care for him by the time he returned.

For months, Romeo moped about Mantua. The sun beat down unforgivingly so that even in the shade he was constantly too hot. The wind smelled wrong. Everything tasted wrong; fruits were too sweet or too bitter, bread too heavy, and meats too over-cooked. None of the youths his cousin introduced him to could match wits with him the way Mercutio or even Benvolio could.

Eventually, his exasperated cousin sent Romeo home again, accompanied by a young friar traveling to Verona. Having not spent months listening to the boy’s complaints and laments, Father Laurence was mostly tolerantly amused as Romeo cycled between elation at returning home and despair over the possibility of his friends forgetting him. As they neared Verona’s gate, the priest delivered a rather well-practiced lecture on the importance of faith—albeit one usually meant to glorify faith in God’s plan and not in the faithfulness of boyish companions. Even so, Romeo looked to the priest with great respect and trust from then on.

Benvolio proved as steadfast as Romeo could have hoped and when they escaped the well-wishers and celebration of the sudden homecoming to find Mercutio, he also welcomed Romeo home with gratifying enthusiasm.

However, not everything was the same as when Romeo had left. Following close behind Mercutio was another boy, his eyes gleaming unhappily and mouth twisted into a scowl. Mercutio made a sharp comment comparing his face to those stone-carved faces meant to frighten evil spirits away and soon the two were wrestling in the dusty streets, having forgotten the newly returned Romeo. Confused and a bit unhappy, Romeo blinked hard as the rising dust stung his eyes and irritated his throat. Benvolio thumped him on the back and loudly introduced the strange boy as Tybalt, nephew of the House of Capulet. Then Benvolio nimbly jumped away before Mercutio’s reaching hand could snare him and drag him into the fight. Romeo was not so far-sighted.

For the next few weeks, Romeo remained rather bewildered by Tybalt’s presence. He took Mercutio too seriously, responding to his jests and gibes with anger as often as humor. He was quick to turn every bit of mockery into an insult and every insult into a physical fight. And yet Mercutio seemed to be constantly turning to look for Tybalt, constantly acting and speaking to draw his attention.

Even Benvolio seemed more amused than offended when Tybalt ridiculed his torn and dirty clothes after a jaunt through an apple orchard (owned by none of their families) turned into a sprint through the trees and a mad scramble over the orchard’s stone wall. Although, Romeo did notice that a new tunic appeared in Benvolio’s wardrobe soon after, one of much nicer quality than he usually wore.

Perhaps in time Romeo and Tybalt might have found their own equilibrium and even, possibly, friendship. It was not to be.

A quiet grudge held by Lord Montague and Lord Capulet and an ancient and nearly forgotten rivalry erupted into an active and violent feud between the two families. The first time that Capulet men and Montague men brawled on the city streets with bared steel, Romeo knew Mercutio would have to make a choice.

When Mercutio placed himself firmly at Romeo’s side, dismissing even the possibility of any other path with a careless glance and biting comment, Romeo thought of Friar Laurence’s lecture on faith. He would have faith in the mercurial Mercutio and make sure he never regretted standing with the House of Montague.

If people thought of Mercutio as a fairy, dangerous and wild, then Romeo would call him a prince among fairies and the very best of friends.

 

**\-------------------------------------**

**_What Happened In Between_ **

**_\-------------------------------------_ ** _  
_

_Mercutio: If love be rough with you, be rough with love;_

_Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down._

 

Romeo quickly lost track of Mercutio and Benvolio amid the masked revelry. Mercutio was in a frenzied mood and was undoubtedly already dancing. Or causing trouble. Or managing both at once. For all that Benvolio had come with the intention of turning Romeo’s eye and heart to other beauties than the peerless Rosaline, it was probably for the best that he kept to Mercutio’s side.

Tybalt was also undoubtedly somewhere about the place and Mercutio was always a little more scornful and manic in his presence. Benvolio was the best choice for keeping peace and good will flowing in those subjected to a fairy-mad Mercutio. And Romeo’s best choice for avoiding the possibility of dangerous attention from his family’s enemies would be to avoid the eye-catching antics of his friends.

He grabbed a cup of wine and headed to the edges of the dancing 

Romeo was scanning the revelers for his lady love, taking the occasional sip of wine, when he saw her—a beauty enchanting enough to drive the thought of any other from his head; even Rosaline. He needed to know who she was, this new angel and object of his worship.

For a short while, he followed behind her, listening in to her conversations and watching her dance. He reveled in her gentle nature and sweet laugh. Eventually, he found just the right time to approach her in a handily shadowed hallway as she moved from one feasting room to another.

She responded so prettily and cleverly to his flirtations, it felt like his heart was bursting.

They wooed and loved in quiet corners of the house of his greatest enemies.

Until her mother called her away.

Her mother, the lady of the house.

Only then did he learn her name.

Juliet. Only living child of the house of Capulet.

\------

Sad hours might seem long and joyful moments rush by but what can be said of those times when one is waiting, torn between gleeful anticipation and deep longing? Time might as well have stood still in the hours between bidding good night to his beloved and greeting Friar Laurence by dawn’s light.

And yet it seemed Romeo had scarcely blinked between the two moments, as if his entire soul was so caught up in dreaming that he had stepped outside of time entirely.

With the good friar’s blessing behind him, Romeo faced more hours of waiting until nine o’clock when his love’s messenger would find him.

He drifted home slowly, watching the day’s beginning with newfound eyes. Had Verona ever been so fair before? Her air so sweet, her sounds so musical?

Had breakfast always smelled so full of flavor and warmth?

Romeo was pleased to find Benvolio and Mercutio alone at his parent’s breakfast table. He ate his fill while bandying witty words with his friends, filled with good will and happy humor. Even temperamental Mercutio was content with Romeo’s air although he still had a few sharp words with which to disparage love and all her virtues.

What would he say, Romeo wondered, if he knew that love was responsible for all that was good and sharp in Romeo this day? What would Benvolio, reluctant peace maker, say about Romeo’s courtship of the heir to Capulet? Would they understand his cheer and bring their own good will to support him, or would they think him gone entirely mad?

Nothing of import had happened in Romeo’s life without these two by his side and at his back. He thought of sharing his news, of asking for their wits and arms to guard his dream. Then he thought of Mercutio’s sharp tongue and distain of love and of Benvolio’s attempts to distract him and turn him from his comparatively safe affection for the lady Rosaline.

He could see Juliet’s nurse on the street, trailed by a manservant. It would be better to keep this secret close to his heart until all was done and could not be undone. Mercutio and Benvolio would forgive him and drink a cup of wine to celebrate his marriage, but not until he and Juliet were ready to share this news with the entire city.

_Mercutio: Romeo, will you come to your father’s? We’ll_

_To dinner, thither._

_Romeo: I will follow you._

_Mercutio: Farewell, ancient lady: farewell,_

_(exits, singing) ‘lady, lady, lady.’_

_Nurse: Marry, farewell! I pray you, what saucy_

_Merchant was this, that was so full of his ropery?_

_Romeo: A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk,_

_And will speak more in a minute than he will stand_

_To in a month._

**\------------------**

**_How It Ended_ **

**\------------------**

To keep the Prince’s peace, to honor Juliet’s love, Romeo would call all the Capulets his kin. He would excuse Tybalt’s challenge and contempt, would stand between his good friend and his old enemy.

For peace. For love.

That was his end and it brought about an ending in truth.

What good was peace when its very attempt brought death? What good love, when it was love that made him interfere and caused Mercutio’s death and love that called for vengeance and slew Tybalt as well? When peace and love brought about murder and hatred, what chance was there for hope? Surely it would only bring its own despair.

And then, banishment. To never again walk the streets of Verona, sup in his parent’s house, or see Juliet at her balcony. He couldn’t bear it.

Had Romeo not been so despondent over the loss of his lady and his own banishment, this is the thought that would have haunted him:

That in his last moments, Mercutio had thought Romeo a coward and reviled him as equally as Tybalt.

 

_Romeo: Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again,_

_That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio’s soul_

_Is but a little way above our heads,_

_Staying for thine to keep him company:_

_Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him._

****

**_\---------------------------------_ **

**_What Might Have Been_ **

**_\-------------------------------_ **

The fate of the world rests in chances and choices and the smallest moments may change the world.

What might have happened if Romeo had not held his secret quite so dear in his heart? If he had spoken to Mercutio and Benvolio at breakfast and shared his plans? Perhaps they would have stopped him; would have prevented his meeting with the nurse; called his parents in to move his fate in a different direction.

But perhaps not. For all that Mercutio was no admirer of love and no lover of peace, he was kinsman to the Prince of Verona. And the Prince of Verona wanted this feud ended, wanted streets free of blood and fear.

Mercurial Mercutio, who was welcomed into every household in Verona, might have seen an opportunity. A chance to gain the Prince’s favor and good will when Mercutio’s scrapes displeased him. A chance for his friend to get what he dreamed of, whether Mercutio believed he would enjoy it or regret it. A chance, perhaps, for old friendships to be revived as old grudges were laid aside.

When Romeo and Juliet married, Mercutio stood at their side, Benvolio warily guarding the door to the small chapel. And when Tybalt came looking for the answer to his challenge, the four of them were not out on the streets, but in the Prince’s receiving room, explaining their actions.

Lord Capulet and Montague were not happy to join hands and pledge good coin to build a home for their children’s love. They glared nastily at each other and complained mightily to their wives for days until those good women were entirely sick of them. They would never know to be grateful that their hands were not joined in grief, that the home they paid for was not a sepulcher.

Mercutio would always find other reasons to mock and fight, other targets to sharpen his tongue and sword against, besides love. Which could, it seemed, with a little assistance and luck, win the day.  


	3. Benvolio and the Intemperate Lovers

**Chapter Three: Benvolio and the Intemperate Lovers**

**\-----------------**

**_How It Began_ **

**_\-----------------_ **

_Benvolio: Part, fools!_

_Put up your swords; you know not what you do._

Benvolio didn’t feel that he was a peace-maker by nature, yet somehow it always seemed to be his role.

He was an expert at cheering Romeo out of his sulks, but that was skill not talent. Anyone with as much experience as Benvolio would be as good. Mercutio certainly had a talent for it though not the patience to always manage.

Truthfully, Benvolio assumed that he was the peace-maker by default because he was the only one who ever seemed to think through the consequences of his actions and those of others around him. It could be a rather tiresome fate, but he bore it for his cousin’s sake.

As children, Benvolio and Romeo were never far apart. Where Benvolio walked, Romeo followed. Where Romeo lay daydreaming, Benvolio sat. So it was rather odd that Benvolio was not there when Romeo first met Mercutio.

Benvolio had had a stomachache and stayed at home while Romeo went wandering. He wasn’t sure if the experience stuck so well in his mind because he was rarely sick or because of what came after. He could remember, though, the sticky heat of his room, the blankets clinging to him uncomfortably. It had felt as if his stomach was full of rocks and every time he moved they would crash about together painfully. He hated everything about that afternoon…but his miserable spirits were considerably lifted when his cousin trudged sheepishly into the room, his clothes soaked and his hair still dripping with pond weed and dirty water.

Romeo had gone back out the next morning, determined to find the boy responsible for the push that had sent him into a cold fountain in the middle of the city. Unwilling to let poor feeling and an uncomfortable stomach stop him from this adventure, Benvolio went with him. Benvolio wasn’t quite sure if Romeo’s aim was to make a friend or to push the other boy into the pond this time. He managed to accomplish both.

Or at least the other boy, one Mercutio, seemed to take the vengeance-based, involuntary bath as an overture of friendship. And Romeo seemed more than happy to respond accordingly. And when Benvolio paled dramatically and vomited on the feet of a nearby statue, both boys willingly helped him back home and into bed and withstood Nurse’s scalding lecture with him.   

It took several weeks before the pair of young Montagues learned that their wild new friend had a very dignified and noble position in life—kin to their own Prince. Benvolio wouldn’t have believed it if circumstances hadn’t been quite so clear. As it happened, they had played a prank on entirely the wrong guardsman, who had been well-placed enough to recognize Mercutio and well-respected enough to drag them before the Prince for their trouble.

Benvolio had rather hoped that would be the worst day of his life. It certainly wasn’t a pleasant one.

Somehow though, all the trouble seemed to cement their friendship. Benvolio, who had ever been a sort-of staid tag-a-long on Romeo’s adventures, found himself embraced equally as a dear companion by Mercutio. Enough so that even when Romeo was stuck at home for some reason or another, Mercutio and Benvolio might still go out together.

As they grew up, their lessons changed, and the cousins spent less time together.Romeo was heir to the house and had a different set of responsibilities to meet. Despairing over his wayward son, Lord Montague even sent Romeo out of Verona for a few months during their twelfth summer. Yet even without Romeo, Benvolio found himself dragged in and out of trouble alongside a never repentant Mercutio.

Benvolio wasn’t sure why Mercutio still had so much time free to play about. In fact, Benvolio wondered at times if he was being let out from some of his own lessons to keep the other youth company (and possibly, somewhat more in check).

Whatever the reason, it was a long few months without his cousin and Benvolio was grateful for Mercutio’s presence. They wandered through the streets of Verona together, making mischief and enjoying life with bright spirits and quick wits.

Then they met Tybalt, of the house of Capulet, for the first time. Unlike Mercutio, Tybalt was too proud of his family to let himself pass unrecognized. He declared his house in their first introduction…speaking through a bloody nose and split lip.

They had been walking towards an estate well-known for its gardens, plotting on sneaking a few apples away with them, when they had heard the unmistakable sounds of a brawl happening in a side alley. A gang of merchant boys was tangling with a dark-haired boy in fine, rich clothing. Although he was quite a bit bigger than the others, he was fighting alone and losing rather badly. Mercutio and Benvolio traded a glance before jumping into the fray. Benvolio might have preferred to figure out what had started it all and who was fighting before he chose a side to defend…but he knew Mercutio would not be willing to wait. And he was, of course, always going to be on Mercutio’s side.

They never learned exactly what had happened, although later Benvolio was always confident that Tybalt started it either by throwing the first punch or by deliberately goading another boy to do it.

In any case, the three of them managed to drive the merchant boys off and Benvolio introduced himself and Mercutio to the stranger. In deference to Mercutio’s temper and fists, he left off their house affiliations. Blood dripping down his face, the other boy swept an elaborate bow and presented himself as Tybalt, nephew of Lord Capulet. It gave Benvolio a moment’s pause—he had paid rather more attention in lessons than Romeo or Mercutio ever did and he was aware that the Capulets and Montagues had been rivals and even enemies in the past.

Still, what was in the past was in the past and the old grudges were best abandoned. Benvolio said nothing of it when Mercutio invited Tybalt to meet with them the next day.

It was a wild time. Mercutio, always quick with tongue and temper, became absolutely cutting in Tybalt’s presence. There were more fights with other boys and more bloody noses. Where Romeo and Benvolio had always responded to Mercutio’s pointed wit by trying to turn his words back on him, Tybalt responded with wounded dignity and furious pride.

Mercutio seemed to take great pleasure at provoking Tybalt until the other boy bristled like a cat facing a challenger. He would hiss and spit and swipe at Mercutio as if he had claws in truth and Mercutio would smile, his eyes glittering with some strange emotion. Tybalt, on the other hand, seemed to be constantly showing off, his pride far greater than his sense. When they climbed trees or walls or stairs, Tybalt always seemed to be pushing himself to go faster and higher than the others—and always with his eye surreptitiously on Mercutio.

Benvolio continued to spend his free time with Mercutio and Tybalt, but it was different than when it had been Mercutio and Romeo. With his cousin along, Benvolio had felt like part of a trio. Even when he was the tag-a-long, he was still part of the group. With Mercutio and Tybalt, it sometimes felt like they were a pair in their own world and Benvolio was an extra person who just happened to exist. Sometimes, that is.

At other times, Benvolio thought that the pair would not have survived their friendship without his presence. He didn’t mind a good fight—but he didn’t like to waste time on a bad one. So, when Mercutio pushed too far, or Tybalt got too caught up in wounded dignity, Benvolio would find something to distract them. He’d tease and divert them into better humor. If all else failed, he’d find another enemy for them to fight. They never failed to band together in the face of an outsider.

And even when they seemed entirely wrapped up in each other, neither Tybalt nor Mercutio ever let Benvolio drift too far away. If he stayed too long in the Montague’s estate, they came looking for him. If he spent too much time with other friends—well, it was an easy way to target their attention on making a new enemy. It wasn’t the same as it had been when it was Romeo and Benvolio and Mercutio…but the three of them still fit, Benvolio and Mercutio and Tybalt.

And then Romeo came home again.

Benvolio had missed his cousin. It was good to have him home and Benvolio found himself falling back into old habits, spending all their time together. Mercutio held himself apart for a little while—either not quite willing to forgive Romeo or feeling more fey than usual—but even he relented and seemed eager to make up for lost time. They traded stories of what they had done while apart—some rather wilder and grander in the telling than they had been in the happening—and the old battles of wit and word became a common part of each day.

It took some time for Benvolio to stop paying attention to his cousin long enough to notice Tybalt was unhappy. In fairness, Tybalt seemed to enjoy being angry and displeased more than anything else. But this was different.  He became more reckless, more violent, more driven and prideful than ever before. He interrupted Mercutio and Romeo’s witty banter with loud complaints and purely mean insinuations. He started more fights and fought even more viciously and more showily than they were used to from Tybalt. When Benvolio tried to talk some sense into him, he snapped at him. Romeo, who didn’t know Tybalt very well, stepped into defend his cousin and Benvolio found too often that his hard-won skills at peace-making were failing him and leading to the opposite effect.

The streets of Verona felt more and more tense and it wasn’t simply the jockeying of boys sorting out the politics of friendships. Something was happening with their elders, and the ancient grudge between Montague and Capulet was becoming more and more a piece of the present rather than the past.

Where great lords looked to war, their men followed, whether that be a war of words, of fists, or of swords.

The first time Tybalt called Romeo and Benvolio ‘dogs of the house of Montague,’ Benvolio knew it for the ending it was. Montague and Capulet were not rivals now, but true enemies, and no boyish friendships would change that or survive through it. Particularly when Romeo and Tybalt had never really been friends and Benvolio was too staunchly his cousin’s man to bend. And Tybalt was himself too proud of his place in the house of Capulet to risk it for his uncle’s most hated enemies.

And then there was Mercutio. Temperamental, wild Mercutio made his own loyalties entirely clear. He stood with the house of Montague. He stood with Romeo and Benvolio.

Their friendships shattered, Tybalt stood alone.

 

**\-------------------------------------**

**_What Happened In Between_ **

**_\-------------------------------------_ **

_Benvolio: I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword,_

_Or manage it to part these men with me._

_Tybalt: What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word,_

_As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:_

_Have at thee, coward!_

 

Considering that their families had just been thoroughly chastised by the Prince for the third public brawl that had broken the civil peace—and that Tybalt had just publicly suggested he was going to kill Benvolio for trying to keep that peace—Benvolio was certain that attending a feast in the Capulet’s hall was a bad idea.

But then they were young and rash. This was the time in their lives for them to indulge in bad ideas. Besides, Benvolio was well and truly tired of being the one to think about consequences let alone constantly being the one to point them out to his friends. Who never listened anyways.

Mercutio had a fair invitation, whether or not the Capulets truly expected him to make use of it. A masked event gave them a better chance of being unnoticed than usual. And Benvolio couldn’t think of any other way to draw Romeo out of his self-imposed misery. If they could find even one pretty lady to distract him from Rosaline, Benvolio might well die a happy man. At least he wouldn’t have to hear any more descriptions of Rosaline’s charms over dinner—he had not been entirely honest when he begged her name from Romeo. His cousin was not at all subtle even if he, somehow, managed to keep the source of his melancholy from his parents.

So on the three friends went, to attend the Capulet’s feast as masked revelers, with the hopes of showing Romeo that there was far more beauty in the world than one fair but indifferent lady.

Not that Mercutio was helping with any of that. Romeo had disappeared into the crowd, no doubt off brooding in some quiet corner. Mercutio, instead of wisely staying inconspicuous, was dancing and singing with wild abandon. He had the full attention of a large portion of the room and he clearly delighted in it.

Benvolio watched, exasperated, as Mercutio whirled through the room, his gaze bouncing here and there. As if he was looking for something. Or someone. Benvolio turned to scan the room himself. Although the Montagues and Capulets didn’t socialize with each other, he could still name most of the people in the room. He could probably figure out who Mercutio was looking for (and maybe warn them of their impending doom) if he caught sight of them—wait. Mercutio’s attention caught on someone near the lord’s table…It was Tybalt.

Of course it was Tybalt.

Hand tense on his sword’s pommel, face twisted into an affronted scowl, Tybalt appeared to be arguing with his uncle. Something his uncle said made him flinch back as if he had been struck and then storm off into the family’s private quarters.

Mercutio’s singing grew louder, his dancing wilder. Benvolio’s head was starting to ache.

\---------

After all the effort Benvolio put into dragging Romeo away from the feast’s end, the fool disappeared on them again. Benvolio assumed he was off someplace sulking even more over Rosaline’s likely repeated refusal. Mercutio, quite out of patience with his old friend, was quick to abandon the search and Benvolio, head aching and out of sorts, was more than willing to join him.

They stumbled through the night together until their paths diverged and each turned to his own home. Benvolio happily tumbled into his comfortable bed and slept the sleep of the young and inebriated. His headache was not particularly better in the morning.

It was also not helped by learning that Tybalt had sent a letter to Romeo that morning. It wasn’t exactly a mystery what it must have said. Benvolio had no doubt that their little adventure at the Capulet’s festivities had been found out and Tybalt was in his usual fine temper about it.

Benvolio wasn’t sure what had stoked Tybalt’s hated of all things Montague to new heights, but he had never before threatened Benvolio as he had the day previous. Tybalt usually saved most of his virulence for Romeo, avoiding Benvolio and Mercutio as much as possible.

And if he was so angry at Benvolio now, what could be his reason for sending a (likely) challenge to Romeo? Had he learned of his misplaced affections?

Romeo had been in and out of love several times already, his heart as easily caught as a snake emerging from its winter burrow, sluggish from the cold and half-blind in the sunlight. If Tybalt was angry at their presence in the house with his precious little cousin (and Benvolio had heard a surprisingly lot about innocent, kind Juliet over the few months that Tybalt was their friend and close companion), then he would undoubtedly be enraged if he thought Romeo was there trifling with the affections of a lady of the Capulet family, no matter how distantly related Rosaline was.

 

_Benvolio: Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet,_

_Hath sent a letter to his father’s house._

_Mercutio: A challenge, on my life._

**\------------------**

**_How It Ended_ **

**\------------------**

He didn’t understand what Romeo was thinking. He didn’t understand why Romeo was tolerating Tybalt’s insults. Romeo might not love fighting the way Tybalt and Mercutio did, but he was no coward to turn from an honorable duel.

And with Tybalt, it would be an honorable duel, likely to first blood. He was free with his insults and sneers, but not with his honor. And for all his threats, he had never seriously harmed another citizen of Verona.

Benvolio also didn’t understand why Romeo tried to intervene between Tybalt and Mercutio when the latter was so overtaken by his own temper and disgust as to bear his sword against Tybalt’s. The Prince’s edict was on Benvolio’s mind, but Mercutio wasn’t of House Montague. As long as they could keep their men from joining the fray and Benvolio and Romeo didn’t enter either, this could be dismissed as another bit of Mercutio’s customary mischief.

And though they were grown, and childish friendships were long ago lost, surely Romeo could remember how it was between Tybalt and Mercutio. They were eager to fight each other but that didn’t match half the violence that they would turn against any outsider that came between them. Benvolio had always been the only exception and even that was only sometimes and only somewhat.

If Romeo wasn’t careful, he’d find himself facing both of their blades as they banded together against his ill-judged interference.

If only. In the end, Benvolio desperately wished that that is what had happened.

He wished so many things. He wished that Romeo had stayed away from home that morning. That he had fought back against Tybalt’s challenge and taken on the duel himself. That he had left Tybalt and Mercutio to their physical argument. That he had done any other thing than step in between them, startling them both and leading them to fumble their steps and weapons.

What had his cousin done?

Benvolio also wished that he hadn’t been in exactly the right place to see Tybalt’s expression when they all realized his sword had slipped under Romeo’s arm and into Mercutio’s side. That expression would haunt Benvolio’s nightmares for the rest of his life, he was sure.

Horror. And despair.

 

_Mercutio: Help me into some house, Benvolio,_

_Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses!_

_They have made worms’ meat of me: I have it,_

_And soundly too: your houses!_

_…_

_Benvolio: Romeo, away, be gone!_

_The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain._

_Stand not amazed: the prince will doom thee death,_

_If thou art taken: hence, be gone, away!_

**_\---------------------------------_ **

**_What Might Have Been_ **

**_\---------------------------------_ **

Destiny is not a static thing, but it does tend to follow certain well-laid courses. Chance and choice may change the world, but some of those changes may echo and reflect what might have been.

What should have happened, then, if Tybalt had noticed Mercutio first at the party and not focused on Romeo? What if Mercutio, unhappy with his friend and unwilling to be ignored by anyone, had chased after Tybalt?

Perhaps two volatile friends might have reconciled that night—might even have realized that it wasn’t friendship that moved their hearts or fanned the flames of jealous possessiveness in their souls.

Benvolio certainly found that he was tired of trying to talk his friends out of ill-considered love, not that he had had much call for that tact with Mercutio before. It was an over-worn conversation with Romeo, to be sure, but Romeo’s fickle heart was not Mercutio’s steadfast one. Besides, Romeo’s problem was that Rosaline didn’t love him back and never would. That was certainly not Mercutio’s problem. Nor Tybalt’s. Nor Benvolio’s.

None of them were happy. None of them had been truly happy for a long time. Maybe, the reluctant peace-maker thought, maybe for once making a mad choice would bring the world back into alignment. Maybe they could find happiness that way. At the least, they might stop being quite so destructive in their attempts to gain each other’s attention.

Maybe they drank too much wine that night, celebrating a long coming reconciliation. Maybe madness was infectious and grew as it went, growing ever greater and wilder as it spread from person to idea to person. Benvolio certainly had no other explanation for what happened or why he went along with it.

Tybalt was a Capulet, but he felt his uncle’s scorn more than his pride. His dear cousin was almost of an age to marry and would soon have no need of Tybalt. Mercutio was the Prince’s kinsmen and a known associate of the house of Montague. He was starting to be pressured towards marriage himself.

They were both too well-known in Verona, too public a set of figures, to find the anonymity they would need to keep the secret they desperately wanted to have.

Somehow, the solution they came to was to fake their own deaths. (Madness was definitely a better explanation than mere drink. Perhaps the fairy madness that Romeo sometimes lay at Mercutio’s feet. Or perhaps the wine they drank was from Dionysus and His Maenads would soon come running through the city, spilling drink and blood with equal fervor).

A carefully choreographed fight, a little real blood, and a poison Mercutio just happened to have heard of that would mimic the effects of death, and the two would be free. Free from the expectations of Verona, of their families. Free to go off on an adventure together.

Benvolio really didn’t know why he went along with it all, except that he had always followed where either Romeo or Mercutio led. And as Romeo seemed to have abandoned him and Mercutio was here asking for his help…what was a loyal man to do? Benvolio thought about finding Romeo to tell him everything that was going—but later, he thought, he would do that later.

It was strangely easy to arrange. A letter from Tybalt to House Montague while Mercutio was breaking his fast with them—Romeo would likely keep to his daily pattern of scorning daylight for the more miserable choice of laying in bed and brooding. Mercutio and Benvolio would answer Tybalt’s challenge instead and their play would dazzle and deceive all of Verona.

None of them expected Romeo to show up and interfere, but they made it work. As it happened, they were good at sudden improvisations. Mercutio played his wild death scene as Tybalt fled. Benvolio helped him into a house, where they had prepared everything they needed for the next step of the deception. Then Benvolio left to go find Tybalt.

The plan was for the two to ‘kill’ each other, each striking an equal death blow. That would leave no one behind to be punished. But perhaps, Benvolio could chase after Tybalt, looking for vengeance. It would mean fleeing Verona, of course, but he knew in his heart that he would be welcome to join the two in their adventure. He had better be. They owed him. They owed him a lot.

Fate being inclined to unkindness that day, of course Romeo would find Tybalt first. Romeo, who had no idea that Mercutio’s death wasn’t real. Romeo, with grief and guilt driving him and giving strength and quickness to his sword arm.

It was incredibly fortunate that Romeo was so full of grief and guilt as to be practically blind. Otherwise he might have noticed that he did not strike a mortal blow when Tybalt suddenly fell. Even so, Benvolio urged him to flee quickly, eager to get his cousin away from this entire debacle…and to check on Tybalt who was far too still on the ground for Benvolio’s peace of mind.

It was a great boon to his composure and general sanity that they had decided to let him hold the deceptive poison. He felt Tybalt’s pulse strong and steady as he helped the man surreptitiously drain the bottle and slowly fall limp.

It comforted him greatly to know the entirety of Mercutio’s plans, that as soon as Tybalt was laid to rest, Mercutio’s very, very well-paid men would sneak his ‘body’ out of the Capulet’s crypt.

First, however, Benvolio had to tell his tale to the Prince. He was nervous about how much of it was tale and how little truth, but that had always been his role in this play. The necessary adjustments to his once-practiced tale were more nerve-wracking, but that might have only added a level of sincerity to his performance.

The Prince’s sentencing of Romeo, banishment, not death, was both a source of great relief and great guilt for Benvolio, although at the moment he felt only the edges of those deep emotions. He was still floating on the numb shock of seeing Tybalt fall and then immediately assuring himself that his friend was still alive to counterfeit his death. Later, as the adrenaline faded, he would feel all his emotions more sharply.

Before that, he found an even greater comfort to his peace of mind when he was finally able to sneak away to meet Tybalt and Mercutio just outside the walls of Verona and see for himself that they were both entirely alive. And snarking at each other, which was basically proof, that they were not only alive but also well and hearty.

For once, Benvolio had let himself not think about the consequences of their actions. For once, he had actively stopped himself from thinking about consequences beyond a happy ending.

The gloom that had embedded itself in the Montague household, the pallor of the lord and lady and silent grief of all its tenants at Romeo’s banishment, was the first sign that Benvolio wouldn’t be able to ignore those consequences. And then he ran into Romeo’s manservant, Balthazar, sitting on the floor in Romeo’s room.

The manservant was utterly loyal and generally as close-mouthed as a nun under a vow of silence. Grief or wine had loosened his tongue only a little. Only enough to make it clear that Romeo had risked his life by staying in Verona through the night after his sentence was read; only enough to stumble through the admittance that his master had called banishment a fate worse than death, had threatened harm to himself if the sentence stood.

Benvolio closed his eyes against the sight of the miserable young servant and desperately wished he could stop up his ears as easily. How could he have abandoned Romeo so, his dear cousin?

He would have to hunt Mercutio and Tybalt down. Perhaps three heads together could find a way to fix this disaster without giving up their newly won freedom from expectations. First though, he would find Romeo and make his apologies—otherwise Mercutio might talk him out of it.

Perhaps Lady Fortune was feeling a bit guilty herself, because in his haste, Benvolio ran headlong into a young friar carrying a message to Mantua. As he reached to pick the fallen paper, he saw that it was addressed to Romeo. Benvolio brought all his wit and charm to bear in convincing the innocent brother to let him take charge of the message.

When a city watchman started raving about a priest’s presence being a clear sign of plague, Benvolio made a hurried escape, with his precious message in hand.

In Mantua, Benvolio learned that Dame Fortune was playing a strange, strange game indeed. For two such similar (and insane) plots to played out simultaneously, by such odd and impossible lovers as these—something beyond human understanding was unwinding a grand plan. Perhaps Mercutio really was a changeling and his fairy relatives were having a good laugh at foolish young lovers as they were wont to do.

Whatever it was, for the second time in far too short a span of time, Benvolio found himself lying to his Prince to help a set of friends fake their deaths and run away to live with their loves. He wasn’t entirely sure where he found the courage for it.

Yet watching Lord Montague and Lord Capulet clasp hands over what they believed to be their children’s mortal remains, Benvolio wondered once again if there was some greater plot at work. Greater even, perhaps, than the plans of Dame Fortune or the fair folk. He glanced over at Father Laurence and saw the good friar’s serene countenance suddenly interrupted by a wink and a nod. He turned back to the lover’s tomb, schooling his face into sorrowful solemnity.

Verona would have her peace.

And those who had let ill will bring about so much strife, were well-punished in the loss of their kinsmen, whose (unreal) deaths had shocked them into changing their ways.

A few days later, Benvolio set out from Verona with a well-provisioned horse. Lord Montague had given him everything he could ask for and more. Everyone knew that Benvolio had spent his entire life following behind Romeo and Mercutio; of course he couldn’t bear to walk the streets of Verona without them. They wished him well and whispered behind his back that they were unlikely to see him again. What was Benvolio without his cousin?

(If Benvolio had had less sharp ears or been less annoyed at how Montague and Capulet were starting to turn building a tomb for Romeo and Juliet into a competition or less quietly furious at how quickly Mercutio and Tybalt’s ‘deaths’ seemed to be forgotten…he might have felt guiltier about the grief he left behind him.)

Benvolio had always been a peace-maker, although it seemed peace sometimes required unusual methods to bring about. For the sake of his own peace, it would be better to keep track of both his cousin and his dear friends.

He would look for Mercutio and Tybalt first. They wouldn’t be hard to find—he would simply keep his ears open for news of a tavern brawl or other public disturbance.

He wouldn’t move too quickly though. He would need some extra time to figure out to tell the rest of this strange story to the pair. In particular, it would keep some clever thought to break the news that Romeo had absconded with Juliet without Tybalt immediately rushing off to actually murder the youth.

Mercutio was likely to enjoy the bizarre irony of it all and he would probably be willing to help Benvolio save Romeo from Tybalt. If he didn’t laugh himself to death first. Between the two of them, they should be able to keep Tybalt contained. At least enough that they could go looking for Romeo and Juliet together. Hopefully the newly married girl would be able to talk her cousin out of murdering her husband.

Since Fate had set them on such similar paths, it made sense for them to figure out what would come next together. Perhaps, they might even find their way to happily ever after. It would be a worthwhile task for Benvolio, peacemaker and reluctant protector of mad love and intemperate lovers.


End file.
